A number of years ago, I taught at a school on a hill and lived at the bottom of it, just beyond the train tracks, a mile's trek through the woods and past country homes.

 

The last week of October, I walked home at the perfect hour. The sun, so low in the sky, lit the remaining leaves almost from below, and they burned like embers, light in solid form. Leaves and sun fell together, one glowing substance, flaking off a dying fire. I walked through it, trying to catch a piece of the light in my cupped hands, watching how the breeze blew a maple like a candle, the breath of God stoking the world.

 

Then it was November. The clock turned back an hour and I was walking home in the dark, head down, my face hiding from the cold, my mind slipping back to October and skipping ahead to Christmas, my eyes fixed on the shoes hurrying my numb toes home.

 

I reached the train tracks and, as I looked both ways, my gaze happened to fall on the fingernail clipping of the new moon, a pale brushstroke against a purple backdrop, the first light of the night and the last of the day.

 

The moon sat cradled like a child in the crook of a tree's arm. It looked just right, as if the branches had let go of their leaves in anticipation of holding this other, quieter light.

 

There are signs every day--in the sun, the moon, and the stars. In this season, they can be hard to see. It is cold and dark, and the light seems far off. I am tempted to put my head down and hurry home, to lose myself in distractions and nostalgia, to worship the memory and the anticipation of God's presence.

 

But the kingdom of God is near. Christ is here now, eager to be born, to make this moment his manger, and kindle my heart to love.